Find Me on the Ice: Hockey Romance (Nighthawks Book 2)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn, that was hot. Fuck.

“I shouldn’t have given him my number,” I shout at Chloe. “Why did I do that? That was so stupid!”

We need to get out of here. Chloe is dragging me through the crowd. We rush out the front door right as the car pulls up in front of us, and we jump inside.

The second our door shuts, Bill, our driver, slams on the gas, and flashes of light go off in the rearview mirror.

That was way too close.

My heart is about to burst out of my damn chest. I cannot believe that just happened. Well, actually, I can’t believe a lot of things just happened.

One, that I almost had my face captured by the paparazzi with my inconveniently famous best friend. Two, that I danced with that guy, Cam, like that. I have never been turned on so much in my life. Never been so willing to hand over control.

I was about to rip my clothes off on the dance floor before the paps showed up. Getting so caught up in the present was thrilling, freeing, exactly what I wanted, what I needed. But I can’t live like that forever—or even for another second.

Nikki. Nikki. Nikki. Nikki. Nikki.

My name is Nikki Satinn.

Nikki Satinn. Nikki Satinn.

I repeat the name over and over in my head. To remind myself why I’m here in the first place, why nights like this are too risky, especially with someone as publicly known as Chloe. Why nights with a guy like Cam are dumb and irresponsible. And that a night is all it can ever be.

One picture, one snap of a moment, and Trey will find me. Being a cop has its perks. Trey might think I’m dead. But if someone he knows or someone I knew sees a photo of me and tells him, he will stop at nothing to find me. And all of those job perks will allow him to do just that.

Three years, I have been hiding in the shadows. I can’t let myself have nights like this because it makes me want more. But more is dangerous.

Part of me wants to take a gun and lodge a bullet between his eyes. I don’t think I would be able to pull the trigger in the end, to take someone’s life. But I guess people don’t know what they are capable of until they are staring death in the face.

Anger boils up inside of me. Pure rage for the power Trey still holds to ruin one of the best nights of my life without even knowing it.

“Fuck!” I slap my hand on the headrest in front of me.

Chloe’s hand immediately falls onto my arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

My brows crease, and my eyes fly open as I whip my head to her. “Am I okay, Chlo?! I’m about to lose my mind. But I’m pretty sure we’ve already passed that!”

Gasping, I do my best to slow my heart rate, my breathing. Just the thought of him potentially finding me has me almost spiraling into a panic attack.

Five things. Name five things I can touch—a coping skill I found online for panic attacks and anxiety.

My gasps are loud enough to grab the attention of Bill.

As my fingers wrap around the headrest in front of me, I whisper, “One.”

Kicking my shoes off, I grab one of them. “Two.”

I push myself to count five things, to focus on each one, not giving myself a spare second to continue getting lost in my own head.

Chloe shoves her purse in my lap, and I reach inside and grab the first thing my hand touches—sunglasses.

“Three.”

I hold the bag up. “Four.”

Wrapping my fingers around the charcoal strap across my chest, I say, “Five.”

My breathing starts to slow, and I inhale long and hard, sucking air in until it burns and then slowly exhaling. I continue to do this until my breathing is normal and my head is clear.

Needing to feel something cold, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes for the remainder of the ride. And when the car rolls to a stop at our hotel, I’m so emotionally and physically drained that I just want to sleep until we head home.

“You want to stay in here a bit longer?” Chloe asks as she rests her hand on top of mine, squeezing gently.

“No, I want to go shower and crawl in bed,” I say.

She nods, and we walk in silence into the hotel, then our room—or I should say, luxurious suite. Because Chloe Dupont does it no other way.

“Come here,” Chloe says when the door behind us clicks shut.

Her arms are stretched out wide, waiting for my hug. And I throw myself into them as the lump in my throat breaks free, and sobs heave from my chest.

“It’s okay, Nikki. It’ll be okay,” she says softly as she rubs my back.

My voice is uneven and shaky as I say, “I’m so exhausted, Chloe. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m sick and tired of living in the shadows because of him. If Trey didn’t still fucking own me, I would have enjoyed the night and probably fucked Cam. But, no, I don’t get to meet people. I don’t get happily ever afters. I get fucking nightmares.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice thick with sorrow.

“I just want to shower and go to sleep. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning and just forget about this night.” I sigh, forcing any residual feelings from the night away.

Without meeting her eyes, I turn and walk into the bathroom with a newfound heaviness. I wasn’t even sure the weight I always felt could get heavier. I start the shower, strip, and step into the burning hot water, letting it wash the sweat and stickiness from dancing and the feeling of hope down the drain.

I wash my hair fast, just wanting to feel the comfort of a warm blanket, and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself.

Steam fogs up the oversize mirror as I approach the double sink. Removing the towel from my body, I wipe the mirror off until I’m faced with my own reflection.

Who am I? Do I have any hopes and desires besides staying safe? The truth is that I can’t afford the thoughts of dreams and wishes because they will make me reckless.

My empty stare travels over my body, spending extra time on the abundance of small scars up and down my arms and the tops of my shoulders. My heart catches on fire as my gaze locks on to the thick white scar on my neck.

He has taken everything from me—my sense of safety, my family, my life. He takes and takes and never stops. He takes the peace out of my dreams when I sleep. He takes the air out of my lungs when I think of him.

Anger surges inside of me as a memory surfaces in my mind, one I wish I could forget completely. But one that reminds me exactly of who Trey is.

I quietly set Trey’s dinner plate in front of him, careful to avoid his gaze.

“Thank you, baby. It smells amazing,” Trey said with a smile on his lips.

I made his favorite tonight—steak with mushrooms and mashed potatoes—hoping the mood he had come home in would be better before we went to bed tonight.

“Thank you,” I said as I settled into my seat at the table next to him.

Placing the fork and knife in my hand, I waited for him to take his first bite. As he cut the steak with ease and placed the slice into his mouth, he hesitated before biting down.

He glanced my way, and a second later, disgust turned his lips down.

I set my silverware down before whispering, “I-is something w-wrong with the s-steak?”

He sighed loudly before slamming his fist on the table. “It’s salty, Morgan! It’s fucking salty! How hard would it be to make it right? Give me yours.”

Without looking up from my lap, I slid my plate over to him.

He cut a chunk out of mine and shoved it into his mouth, chewing aggressively.

He chuckled and scoffed before saying, “Of course yours is perfect.”

“I-I’m sorry, Trey. I really didn’t mean to,” I whispered to him, afraid of what was to come.

Sometimes, Trey’s anger was instant—a slap across the face, a punch to the stomach, a grab and yank of my hair until patches ripped out. Sometimes, his anger stirred and came later—that version was always much worse.

This was one of those times.

“I’m eating yours. You eat mine, all of it, and don’t leave a speck of food on that plate. Then, clean this up.” With that, he stood from the table with my plate in his hand and walked to his office.

My body quivered as I force myself to eat every last bite on the plate, knowing there was no more salt on this steak than there was on mine.

After I finished, I washed the plate and utensils by hand, dried them, and put them away as quietly as I possibly could.

After I wiped down the dining table, I headed upstairs, hoping to be in bed as fast as I could. I knew sleeping wouldn’t stop the inevitable, but I could surely hope it did.

I crawled under the sheets seconds before his voice tore through the silence in the house.

“MORGAN!” Trey screamed.

I could hear the slight change in his tone that only existed when he’d been drinking. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it meant that I’d better keep my head down, my mouth shut, and my mind disconnected from my body. Because the nights he drank were the nights I hoped he would finally kill me. Because dying would be so much better than whatever he had planned.

I hurried, remaking the bed and flattening the sheet that I’d wrinkled. I tried to calm my already-sporadic breathing as I exited the bedroom and met him in the dining room.

I could feel his stare as I approached him, attempting to keep a little distance between us. But that seemed to anger him even more.

I yelped as his hand fisted my hair, and he dragged me from where I stood to our seats.

“What is this, Morgan? You missed a spot! For fuck’s sake! All I ask is that you eat your food and then clean up. You can’t even seem to do that!” He jerked my head up to his and bent my head back, forcing me to look at him. “Oh, you have nothing to say?”

Tears flooded my eyes as the pain seared my scalp. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He laughed. “I’m sorry too, Honeybee.”

Over time, Trey had become more unpredictable, more malicious, and even more menacing.

“Trey, please d-don’t. I’ll be better. I won’t miss anything next time. Please.” I begged him to stop.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know the best way to train a dog is by physical punishment. By doing this, I know you will never make that mistake again. Words can’t be trusted, but actions can. I’m doing this for you, Honeybee. Remember, I’m trying to help you be better.”

“Trey, please, please,” I pleaded. I cried out as he dragged me by my scalp to the living room. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything!”

“Desperation is a pathetic look on you,” he snarled as he ripped my head up to him, our eyes meeting.

In the blink of an eye, his fist slammed into my ribs. I screamed and cried. He pulled up higher on my head, forcing my back to arch and my rib cage to open.

The next blow did much more damage than the last. The burning sensation attacked my side before the sound of my ribs breaking reached my ears.

He looked almost shocked, like he hadn’t expected to do that, or surprised that it’d seemed to happen so easily.

He breathed heavily in my face. Droplets of his spit mixed with tears on my cheeks. “Stop crying.”

“No. You can beat me, break me, but you can’t make me stop crying.” Something inside me compelled me to push back, to fight him, if only for a second. I regretted it immediately.

“You’re wrong.” He smiled.

He lifted me up off of the ground by his fist in my hair. I felt my flesh tear away from my scalp. I crashed to the ground hard and fast. But it wasn’t the ground I found—at least, not at first.

With an explosion of glass, my body and head slammed into our glass coffee table, shattering it into a million pieces. I felt the shards sticking out of me everywhere. When I breathed too deeply, my ribs made me wince, and the shards dug in deeper.

I couldn’t move without agonizing pain lighting up every inch of my back, my shoulders, my arms, and my neck.

“When you stop crying, I’ll help you up. You can stay there until then. I’ll come back in ten minutes.”

I settled into the excruciating position, holding still, as the shards of glass sank deep into my skin. I forced short breaths of air into my lungs, trying to ignore the sharp sting in my ribs. I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t look anywhere, except to the ceiling.

I lay there for ten horrifically long minutes, until he returned, until he helped me up, my face dry and my body soaked in my own blood. He cleaned me up, carefully and gently extracting each and every shard of glass. Thankfully, none were too big or had done more than apparent surface damage. He left me alone to bathe, and I fell more and more numb and drifted further inside of my own head.

When I walked out of our master bath, he brought me wine and Dove chocolates. He doted on me, massaged my feet, treated me as he should. I knew that as soon as this kindness wore off, the real Trey would resurface. But I didn’t plan on being here when it did.